And Then They Made Me Their Chief
by Saahira
Summary: How did Jack meet AnaMaria? Who were the rum runners who rescued him ten years before? How much does Jack exaggerate his tales?
1. Default Chapter

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is two tales in one - 1) Jack Sparrow aboard the Interceptor recounting the story that leads up to the now famous line, "And then they made me their chief." His recital is interspersed with 2) the actual events, which took place a few months before the movie. I've used ********** to differentiate the shift between the two versions; please let me know if its confusing or not.  
  
I've also tackled the questions of 1) how Jack and AnaMaria met; and 2) who exactly were those rumrunners that rescued Jack ten years earlier after Barbossa marooned him. Again, its just my take on how things might have been.  
  
I'm rating it PG-13 for references to adult and/or slash situations, though nothing actually happens in the story itself. This tale will be in three parts, so if you enjoy this first Chapter, please check back for Chapters Two and Three.  
  
I had a great time writing two versions of the same story, trying to show how Jack, um, 'glorifies' his adventures. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it!  
  
Also, my heartfelt thanks to all of you who have reviewed my other stories. You make the writing worthwhile, folks!!  
  
******************** ********************  
  
"... And Then They Made Me Their Chief ..."  
  
Chapter ONE  
  
by Saahira 09-29-03  
  
On the deck of the HMS *Interceptor,* two soldiers listened with rapt attention, fascinated by the dirty and grizzled, bearded and beaded, nefarious-seeming stranger who sat facing them. Captain Jack Sparrow spun his tale in hypnotic tones, his words flowing with the ease of a born storyteller. Yet his mind was busy elsewhere, plotting and planning how best to liberate said *Interceptor* from her berth in Port Royal.  
  
"Then it hit," Sparrow said, and he paused dramatically, his kohl-lined eyes narrowing. His hands moved gently, a small gesture outward acknowledging the sea. "The storm. The worst one to hit the Caribbean in a dozen years."  
  
"I remember it," the thinner of the two soldiers said eagerly. He glanced at his comrade as if for confirmation. "You remember, Mullroy? Six months ago? The one that flooded Port Royal."  
  
"It struck in the night," Sparrow purred, holding their gazes with the force of his own. "The *Fury* was a good ship, a sound ship, but she had no chance against it." He failed to mention that the *Fury* had already been badly damaged in a firefight with the HMS *Majestic.* The pirate schooner had managed to outrun the bigger British vessel, but they couldn't outrun the storm. It struck before repairs could be made. But no need telling these guileless soldiers that; no sense making them feel superior to old Jack.  
  
"It came in with a vengeance," Sparrow murmured intently, "and the *Fury* was crushed like kindlin' beneath it ..."  
  
********************  
  
*The Fury was going down!*  
  
The *Fury* was going down, and not all the prayers in heaven could save her. She was too badly damaged, too battered and broken. The ocean that once had loved the proud ship had on a whim sentenced her to die.  
  
Captain Jack Sparrow clung to the wheel, fighting to keep the ship's bow turned into the raging wind. Waves lashed the deck, washing away any men still foolish enough to be caught there. Thunder crashed and lightning split the sky. The ocean roared, pummeling poor *Fury.* In one violent blow, it nearly capsized her. Only luck and the stubbornness of one man kept her afloat.  
  
Jenkins, the First Mate, forced his way across the slanting deck. Fell when *Fury* pitched and bucked. He swam more than walked in Sparrow's direction.  
  
"All hands are in the longboats, sir!" He shouted against the storm, yet his voice sounded thin and weak, inconsequential in the face of the ocean's wrath.  
  
Jack squinted blindly ahead into rain and wind and darkness. His long hair, black as the night, whipped back from his face. He was soaked to the bone, the rain beating down with a force so great he could barely open his eyes. He had bound his wrist to the wheel; he'd be damned if he willingly lost a second ship, whether it was his to lose or not.  
  
"Go on then!" he yelled.  
  
"Not without you!" Jenkins cried. "Samuels is holdin' one of the boats for us!"  
  
Damn dead Captain Arriaga's First Mate, Sparrow thought furiously. Damn him and his loyalty, damn Samuels, damn the damned *Majestic,* and damn the bloody storm.  
  
"Go!" he yelled again. "I'll join you when I can!"  
  
"There's not much time, sir! She's splittin' apart at the seams!"  
  
"*Go!*" Sparrow bellowed.  
  
Jenkins hesitated, searching the younger man's face. Then he turned and slid down the tilted deck. He did not look back.  
  
*The Pirate's Code. If a man falls behind, he is left behind.* Simple enough. Harder when its you doing the falling behind.  
  
A brutal wave rolled across the deck, smashing everything in its wake. It knocked Sparrow down, nearly snapping his bound wrist. Coughing out sea water, he struggled back to his feet. Tried to stand, but couldn't; the deck had not righted itself. There was no more time. The *Fury* was a corpse beneath him.  
  
"G'bye, luv," he mumbled. His free hand fumbled with the rope's knot, but the fibers had swollen and tightened in the flood of rain and salt water. Sparrow jerked out his dagger and began cutting. Cutting.  
  
Another wave, bigger and meaner than the last. It slammed the *Fury* on her side, submerging Sparrow briefly underwater; he surged to the surface, choking. Rigging groaned and collapsed. The main mast cracked and splintered, dropping without mercy on the man trapped at the helm.  
  
Pain was the last thing Jack Sparrow knew before darkness claimed him.  
  
********************  
  
"So what did you do?" the thinner soldier asked impatiently.  
  
"That's right," the chubby one, Mullroy, added. He eyed Jack Sparrow doubtfully. "No man could survive a wreck that bad. No *normal* man. How'd you get out of it?"  
  
"Well," Sparrow said, leaning forward. His eyes narrowed, his hands clasped atop his knee, and he smiled seductively. "When I came to, I was surrounded in wreckage with not another livin' soul in sight. So's first thing I did was I used my sword to cut away the ropes lashin' me to the remains of the wheel. Most of the *Fury* was in little pieces, but I spied one bit of hull bigger than the rest. So's I swam to it and I climbed aboard it. Then I gathered up a couple of loose planks and I used them for paddles."  
  
"Paddles?" Mullroy frowned. "You used broken planks as paddles?"  
  
"Aye," Sparrow nodded. "For a week and more I paddled under a blisterin' hot sun. With no food, no water, and the salt burnin' my skin, I paddled. And at last," his hand arced slowly outward, and he smiled beatifically, "I came to an island."  
  
"What island?" the thin soldier asked.  
  
Sparrow pursed his lips, considering. "I only learnt the native's name for it. Pattatoui Maloui."  
  
"Never heard of it," the heavy soldier said. "You heard of it, Murtogg?"  
  
"Course not," Murtogg reprimanded, "he just said it was the native's name for it, didn't he? Go on, Mr. Smith, what happened then?"  
  
"Well," Sparrow continued, eyeing first one man and then the other, "I dove off my sorry little raft and swam up to shore, where I was greeted by the most beautiful people ever to grace this good earth. Golden skin, they had, and hair black as jet. The men were all warriors and the women ... the women were all naked."  
  
"Naked!" both soldiers exclaimed in unison.  
  
"Aye," Sparrow grinned, "and a prettier sight was never seen by a poor lost mariner's eyes. Tall and slender they were. More beautiful and shapely than the finest ladies in Paris."  
  
"And naked?"  
  
"As the day they was born, mate." He leaned forward, and his gold-flecked smile became conspiratorial. "And they was very willin' to please a man, if ye know what I mean."  
  
"You mean ...?"  
  
"Aye, lad. That's *just* what I mean."  
  
********************  
  
The sun was an orange-red glare against shut eyelids. He swallowed dryly, his throat raw and parched. His stomach roiled, no doubt full of salt water wanting to come up. His body was strangely numb, yet not a single part of him didn't hurt.  
  
The last thing Jack remembered was going down still lashed to the ship. He glanced. Saw rope burns circling his wrist, red and swollen welts, angry looking. Least he still had his hand. Experimentation proved he could move his fingers, a little. That was a good sign; a good start. Beneath twitching fingers, Sparrow felt the dampness of wet sand and knew himself saved.  
  
Up. He needed to get up and see what bit of salvation the sea had spit him out on. He swallowed again. His head was splitting. He wanted only to lie there and sleep. But that wouldn't get him any food or fresh water, now would it?  
  
Drawing a deep breath, Sparrow began the slow process of shifting onto one elbow; with a strangled cry he dropped back down again. He lay flat on his back, panting as agony lanced through his body. His leg was on fire. His side was slightly less painful; a cracked rib or two making themselves known. As for the leg ...  
  
He gathered his courage, steeled himself against the pounding in his skull, and raised his head. It took a moment for his weary eyes to focus, to see the shattered splinter, two fingers thick and as long as his forearm, thrusting through the meaty part of his thigh. Bloody hell ...  
  
His head dropped back on the sand. He'd have to move eventually. It was that or die here on this sorry bit of beach. Perhaps later would be soon enough though, when his head quit hurting so bad. Jack closed his eyes against the sun ...  
  
He woke again to the low murmur of voices. Strange voices, for he couldn't put meaning to their words. Not English. Certainly not French, Spanish or Portuguese, or any other tongue he was familiar with. He was aware that the sun's glare was gone. Night then, or close to it. He creaked only one eye open.  
  
And saw a broad face framed by frizzled black hair peering down at him. Chubby tattooed cheeks and a pierced nose. A round, wobbly body wrapped in a sarong not big enough to hold it all.  
  
The fat face grinned, revealing one prominently missing tooth. The face jabbered at him, an incomprehensible string of noises. It hurt his head to hear it.  
  
"No, no, no," Sparrow muttered blearily, and raised a weakly protesting hand. "English, lass. Do ye speak English?"  
  
The head tilted. Sparrow became aware that he and the woman were not alone.  
  
"Englees," the girl grinned. "Yes, yes, Englees. You Queenie?"  
  
"Lass," he said tiredly, closing the eye, "you'll have to do better than that."  
  
Someone else came to stand above the girl. An old man, his wizened features curious. "Tula say, you Englees man, yes? Queenie's man?"  
  
"Oh," Sparrow squinted upward. His body had grown blissfully unaware of sensation, permitting such luxuries as conversation. "You mean a soldier? Or a sailor in the Royal Fleet? No," he answered on a sigh, not adding that Britain currently had a King and not a Queen; one did not correct one's possible saviors that way. "I am not."  
  
"Good! We help then, yes!" The man's enthusiasm might have surprised Jack Sparrow had he been well enough to care. The elder pushed the girl aside and took her place. His hair was bushy and gray, his eyes were rheumy with age, and he had no more than a tooth or two in his whole head. But his manner was calm and confident, and just then those traits seemed more important to Jack than the others. The elder barked orders in his twisty native tongue, and the pirate found himself quickly surrounded by a group of very small, very skinny men. Only one of them was clothed, and that barely. The others seemed undaunted by having their manhoods dangling and swinging about for the world to see.  
  
Even sick and dizzy with pain, Sparrow laughed. Imagine that, he thought. Captain Jack Sparrow rescued by a band of naked gnomes. When he at last told the tale, he'd have to ...  
  
The thought was vanquished in a cry of pain when they lifted him.  
  
********************  
  
"Of course they offered me every hospitality," Sparrow said glibly.  
  
"Including the women?"  
  
"*Especially* the women." Captain Sparrow grinned cheekily. "They almost worshipped me, they did. They had feasts and parties every night in my honor."  
  
"Every night?" the chubby soldier asked. "You said it was an island. Didn't they run out of food, feasting every night like that?"  
  
"It ... was a really *big* island," Sparrow quickly temporized. He gestured grandly, emphasizing the island's immense proportions. "A big tropical *paradise* of an island, mate. Which is why the natives could live where they did and I could be there with 'em, and the rum runners could be hidden where they were with their cache hidden where it was, and the *Majestic* could be harbored where she was right there alongside said cache, and none of us the wiser of the other. Except for the natives, of course, who knew where everyone was."  
  
"What'd he say?" the thin soldier asked, turning to his comrade.  
  
"The *Majestic* was there?" Mullroy asked excitedly, fixing on only one point among the jumble. "I've heard of her. Biggest pirate-hunter in the ocean, that's what she is." He frowned. "What was *Majestic* doing harbored at *your* island?"  
  
Jack winced slightly at his slip, but there was no help for it but to continue. "A ... special assignment. To catch the rum runners."  
  
********************  
  
Consciousness was fleeting at first, flirting coyly like a woman not yet willing to give herself, allowing Sparrow only fleeting glimpses of the world around him: the interior of a small thatch hut; a scrawny little medicine man, all painted up like a bloody savage; the fat girl, always grinning and touching him where she shouldn't have been touching. He remembered a sweet-tasting liquid being poured down his throat, and later a nutty gruel.  
  
By the time he became fully aware, his ribs had been bound and the wood removed from his poor abused leg. Thigh and wrist were both bandaged up nice and neat, and there was a slimy paste smeared over all his cuts and abrasions. They had relieved him of his clothing and effects, a dilemma which Sparrow promptly corrected upon finding his belongings stacked neatly beside him.  
  
Standing, moving ... hell, just sitting up ... he felt weak and hungover, like he was just coming off a week-long binge. The irony of it was appalling.  
  
He stumbled out into filtered morning sunshine and it blinded him. He threw an arm up to shield his eyes from the assault and heard an unmistakable voice filled with unbridled enthusiasm.  
  
"*Queenie!*" He squinted to see young Tula trotting, bouncing, jiggling, wobbling toward him with thick arms opened wide. Horrified, Sparrow braced himself for the impact, but the girl managed to halt her momentum mere inches away and stood there with the folds of her flesh swaying gently. She grinned her gap-toothed grin and beamed, "Queenie wake up."  
  
"Sparrow, young miss," he corrected, wincing slightly. "*Captain* Jack Sparrow. Or just Jack, if you please."  
  
"Jick," she repeated reverently.  
  
The whole tribe was looking at him now, all those bony, naked little men. All those huge, blubbery women with their tattooed faces and fuzzy hair, half-clad in colorful sarongs. There were a half-dozen or so dirty children, and they stared too.  
  
"Jick eat," Tula gushed, taking his hand in hers. "Jick eat with Tula and papa."  
  
Limping, Sparrow allowed himself to be led to palm fronds scattered like picnic blankets across the ground. When Tula sat, the ground shook. Or so it seemed to the wounded, headsore pirate dragged down with her.  
  
He was relieved to see his benefactor sitting across from him. Jack smiled gratefully, though he knew it probably looked as sickly as he himself felt.  
  
The old man touched a hand to Sparrow's chest, repeating, "Jick." The hand touched his own chest, and he straightened proudly. "Syull. Chief of Cas'ambenga."  
  
"Syull," Sparrow repeated, his Tortugan brogue forming the name clumsily. He glanced at the members of the tribe. They had started eating again, though most continued staring. Especially the women. And he wasn't quite sure he liked that lusty gleam in their eyes.  
  
Then he frowned, noticing that some of them had red, swollen pustules marring their faces and the visible parts of their expansive flesh ... which was most of their bodies. "Are they diseased?" he asked in dismay, pointing.  
  
"Besalaya berries," Syull grinned. "Taste good but make spots." He shrugged, dismissing the topic.  
  
"Eat," Tula urged. She thrust a bowl into his hands, grinning encouragement. Demurely, she added, "Tula cooked."  
  
Being half-starved, Jack Sparrow was more than happy to oblige. He reached eagerly inside the bowl, ready to gorge his grumbling belly on exotic island fare. Stopped. Slowly ... *slowly* ... withdrew his hand. Eyebrows quirked, climbing up underneath his beaded red scarf. Dark eyes slewed a sidelong question. "These are ... *worms?* Are they not?"  
  
"Tula cooked," Tula giggled shyly, demurely tucking her chins.  
  
"Yes." Sparrow tried to grin. Almost succeeded. "Well, um ..." He spotted some fruit lying unclaimed between them. He quickly traded worms for produce and bit into something sweet and tangy. "Delicious, innit?" he said around the mouthful, juice dripping down into the braids of his beard. He hoped he hadn't offended the girl. Slighting the natives when one was stranded alone among them was not always the wisest course to take.  
  
If Tula was offended though, she hid it well. She grinned her gap-toothed grin and placed a possessive hand high on Jack's thigh.  
  
But Syull, at least, was a savvy old goat. He grinned knowingly. "Queenies not like takisha worms either. Queenies eat all birds and pigs; hunt all time. Eat all sweet berries." He shook his shaggy gray head, his wrinkled visage growing bitter. "Queenies don't go, soon no more pigs, no more berries. Women get skinny and ugly."  
  
It was a sign of how blurry he still was that it took several seconds before the significance of Syull's complaint actually registered in Sparrow's mind. Then his kohl-lined eyes narrowed and he peered into the old man's face. Carefully, he asked, "Are you sayin' there are soldiers ... Queenies ... on this island? Now?"  
  
"Queenies *everywhere!*" old Syull exclaimed, throwing his hands skyward in exasperation.  
  
"Now that's interesting," Jack Sparrow murmured, more to himself than to either of his hosts. "That's very interesting."  
  
********************  
  
"Chasing rum runners; that's strange," Mullroy said suspiciously. "Pittance of a mission for a captain like Remy to take when there are pirates like Roberts and Sparrow and the like roaming the Caribbean."  
  
"Yes, well ... *this* captain of rum runners was different from the other more ordinary rum runner captains." Sparrow paused. His dark eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, dropping his voice low for the telling. "His name was Heinrich Schmidt. He was a big mean brute of a man. Vicious as the devil in hell, mate. He'd as soon kill a man as look at him. Once ran a man through for snorin' too loud."  
  
"That's mean," Murtogg agreed.  
  
"Oh, aye," Sparrow murmured. "There was none more frightenin' than the formidable Captain Schmidt. If there be monsters in this world, gents, then Schmidt is their lord and master."  
  
********************  
  
Captain Jack Sparrow leaned against the trunk of a convenient palm tree, his ribs and thigh aching atrociously. His own fault; he was the one that had demanded he be shown the 'Queenies.'  
  
And see them he did, with a sinking heart.  
  
The *Majestic* was anchored just off the island's western shore. Repairs were being made; apparently the storm had been only slightly kinder to the big British vessel. At least she had survived, unlike poor *Fury.*  
  
Captain Remy had organized a small logging operation with sailors felling trees, cutting and forming planks which then went to patch a gaping wound in *Majestic's* starboard hull. Or at least, it *had* been gaping ... the difference in color between old wood and new made that obvious. Already, repairs were almost completed.  
  
Industrious blighters. They had also built makeshift shelters on the beach against sun, wind and rain. That, and a good dozen pigs and half as many birds had been gutted and shoved on pikes to drain; five huge hogs currently decorated spits which were slowly being turned over open fire pits. Captain Remy sat beneath a lean-to, barking orders to his men. Nearby, in the shade of swaying palm trees, cushioned on sand, sat their prisoners.  
  
Sparrow recognized the late Captain Arriaga's First Mate, Mr. Jenkins. Samuels, the bosun, was there as well. All told, about half of the *Fury's* thirty-man compliment had been captured; which meant two longboats at least had been swallowed by the sea. Damned shame, that. They were good men; good pirates. They hadn't deserved to die that way.  
  
The survivors were chained like slaves at ankles and wrists, one man to the next. Sadly, Sparrow could expect no help from them.  
  
"See," Syull whispered beside him, pointing to the spitted hogs. "Queenies here. Queenies there. Eat *all* our pigs!"  
  
Jack slanted him a curious glance. Softly, he repeated, "Queenies here. Yes, I see them. But Queenies *there?*"  
  
Syull jerked his chin across his shoulder in affirmation. "Queenies there too."  
  
Sparrow's frown deepened. "Am I to take it there's a ship off the eastern shore then, as well?"  
  
Syull nodded. "These Queenies stupid. Worry about making boat and eating pigs. Queenies there," he said, nodding east, "mean." He shrugged. "Mean and hungry."  
  
Pursing his lips, Sparrow considered this new and intriguing information. Had the other group belonged to the Royal Navy, they would have anchored here alongside *Majestic;* even an honest merchant would have moored nearby for the safety the huge warship offered. That they had not implied they chose not to give away their presence. That they were pirates was possible. More likely, the other Queenies were either rum runners or smugglers.  
  
Crunching footfalls scattered those thoughts, making Sparrow turn as swiftly as his battered body allowed. Turned, expecting to find himself looking down the barrel of a naval officer's pistol, or perhaps the blade of a cutlass; he turned fully expecting to join his former shipmates in their ignoble captivity. He was not, however, prepared for what he found himself confronting. Flinching, Jack leaned back against the stalwart palm, letting it support his weight while he struggled for composure. Only two words escaped his lips, and those carried on a vastly unhappy sigh. "Captain Schmidt." Distantly, he noticed that Syull had deserted him.  
  
The man grinned. He was older than Jack Sparrow by many years, slimmer and taller, his body more willowy than strong. Thinning blonde hair was tied back by a simple black ribbon; cunning gray eyes surveyed Sparrow from behind sun-glinted spectacles. Truthfully, someone not knowing him might have considered Schmidt better suited to a library than a smuggling vessel; a man no more ominous than a harmless, doddering and genteel old scholar should be. But Jack Sparrow knew better, knew there was none more frightful than his man and his ... unique idiosyncrasies. Beside Schmidt stood three burly sailors.  
  
"Jack," Schmidt said in greeting, his voice heavy with Germanic tones. He smiled, "Imagine vinding you here. Stranded again?"  
  
Jack winced, waving a hand. "In ... a manner of speaking, I suppose you *might* say that I was."  
  
Schmidt nodded. A friendly nod. He waggled a knowing finger toward Sparrow's nose. "For *years* I have heard of your crimes. Everyvon has heard of Jack Sparrow now, ja?"  
  
"*Captain* Jack Sparrow, if you please, sir."  
  
"Captain? So you've commandeered another ship then?"  
  
"No," Jack was quick to answer. "You know I have only one ship. The *Black Pearl."*  
  
The German laughed. "Ah, yes. Alvay's dreaming, ja, Jack? It is von of your most ..." his eyes crinkled hungrily, longingly, lustfully, "... *endearing* traits."  
  
Kohl-smudged eyes narrowed cautiously. "You flatter me, Captain Schmidt."  
  
"Vonce you called me Rich. Have I changed so much?" Schmidt let his own bespeckled gaze rove Sparrow from the faded red scarf and the long matted hair tied with coins and beads, down the length of Jack's lean frame to his leather boots, and then back up again. His expression was appreciative as he cocked a wrist in midair and said, "You've matured nicely. Filled out more, ja?"  
  
Jack Sparrow forced a friendly smile. He waved an aimless hand. "Well, it has been ... what? Nine years? Almost ten now?"  
  
Schmidt laughed jovially. "Ja! Ten years since I vound you drinking up my store of rum! Those vas good times, vasn't they?"  
  
"And how is ..." Sparrow's brow furrowed as he reached for the memory, "Vincent, wasn't it?"  
  
"Ah, Vincent." Schmidt's expression grew nostalgic. "He vas a good boy."  
  
Jack's frown deepened suspiciously. "Was?"  
  
The German sighed regretfully and shrugged, as if that explained everything.  
  
Actually, knowing Heinrich Schmidt, it did.  
  
Seeking safer ground, Sparrow raised a hand to indicate the British encampment. "You know, of course ... *Rich* ... that we are sharin' our little paradise with Captain Remy and his heavily-armed entourage?"  
  
Schmidt stared between concealing branches at the distant figures of Remy and his toiling men. His thin lips twisted in disgust. "Ja, dirty British! Ve can't load our cargo until they leave."  
  
Jack's eyebrows climbed. "You have one of your caches on this island?"  
  
Captain Schmidt was smug. "I have rum stored all over these islands, Jack. Perhaps," he said, stepping nearer, running a slow finger across the pirate's cheek, "I vill even share some vith you. Tonight, perhaps?"  
  
Sparrow's answer was half pained wince, half placating smile. He stepped pointedly beyond the taller man's reach, looking back to the encampment. "See those men there," he said, deftly changing the subject yet again. "They are the remnants of the *Fury's* crew."  
  
The rum runner turned his gaze back to the prisoners. For the first time, he lost his casual demeanor. "Francisco Arriaga's *Fury?*" he asked sharply.  
  
"Damaged by our red-coated friends there," Sparrow replied grimly. "Then she went down in the storm."  
  
"So Frank is dead?"  
  
"Aye, Frank is dead. Killed during *Majestic's* attack."  
  
Schmidt shook his head. "He vas a good friend. Ve did business together sometimes." He glanced at Jack. "You vere on the *Fury?*"  
  
"Arriaga and I were working together, aye." He sighed at the thought of all the riches lost to Davy Jones' locker. "My scheme and his ship. We had just finished plundering San Lucia."  
  
The older man's head tilted curiously. "Then vhy aren't you dead, Jack? Or vith them?" He jerked his chin toward Jenkins and the rest.  
  
Jack briefly contemplated admitting the truth, but like all such impulses it was only a passing fancy and quickly squashed. Instead he stated with the absolute sincerity of a born liar, "I rowed here actually On a piece of *Fury's* hull. Usin' broken planks as oars." No sense in telling the less heroic facts, or that the sea had not left him in the best of shape. There was the legend of Captain Jack Sparrow to consider, after all. That, and there was no reason for giving Heinrich Schmidt the upper hand; the German would steal it soon enough.  
  
But only if Jack Sparrow let him.  
  
The pirate decided there was nothing for it but to plunge ahead. He said with more confidence than he felt, "I mean to get those men free, Rich."  
  
Schmidt smiled benignly down at him, a patriarch indulging a child. "By yourself, Jack?"  
  
"Well," Jack admitted guardedly, "I had rather hoped you might help me out some."  
  
Captain Schmidt studied the smaller man for a long, cool moment. Then, "Come back to camp vith us, Jack. Ve vill discuss your plans there tonight."  
  
"Tonight?" Going back to Captain Heinrich Schmidt's encampment was the last thing Jack Sparrow wanted. Especially at night. He said, "I um ... I would. But you see, I um ..." He grinned, hands waving. "I have other commitments."  
  
"On a deserted island?" Schmidt grinned. "Nonsense. I vill see you tonight. Ve're anchored off the eastern beach. You von't have trouble vinding us. Oh, and Jack?" He paused. Shrugged. "If you don't come, I vill send my men to bring you."  
  
Best not to tease the tiger. Or provoke him. "I'll be there," Sparrow promised unhappily. He watched as the four men were swallowed by the jungle. Then, spotting Syull's lurking shape slowly emerging from the underbrush nearby, he added derisively, "Some bloody brave chief you are."  
  
******************** 


	2. And Then They Made Me Their Chief, Chapt...

"... And Then They Made Me Their Chief ..."  
  
Chapter TWO  
  
by Saahira 10-05-03  
  
"That's a right tight spot to be in, Mr. Smith," Murtogg said admiringly, "stuck in the middle between the Crown's champion, a bunch of bloodthirsty savages and their naked women, and a tyrannical rum runner. If this Captain Schmidt is as dangerous as you say he is."  
  
"I've not heard of him before," Mullroy commented dryly.  
  
"Oh, he's real all right," Jack Sparrow murmured. He held their gazes, his dark eyes penetrating. His gestures as he spoke were slow and seductive, drawing them further into his tale. "Though he guards his identity like a treasure. He's as real as the burnin' heat of a summer sun on a dying man's head. He's as real as a hungry shark what circles a drownin' man, waitin' for the feast."  
  
"So," said the chubby man skeptically, "what you're saying is you had two warring factions just waiting to rip each other apart. Why didn't you let them?"  
  
"Let them?" Jack frowned in confusion.  
  
"Aye. Let them as wanted to fight fight, whilst you took off in the rum runner's ship. Seems like that'd been the logical thing to do."  
  
"Shush now! Let Mr. Smith finish his story!"  
  
"Or just let Captain Remy handle the whole situation. That's his job, you know. Unless," he added cagily, "you had something to hide from him yourself?"  
  
"Well, y'see," Sparrow replied, modestly touching his grubby chest, "I am at heart a peaceable man, and loyal to England. My main concern was to find a way to ensure the lives and safety of the good Captain Remy and his crew."  
  
"And keep Remy ignorant of the natives and the rum runners as well?"  
  
"Aye, ignorant of the *warlike* natives and the *bloodthirsty* rum runners. So's he wouldn't get involved in their conflicts."  
  
The heavy soldier frowned skeptically. "But you just told us a bit ago that you yourself wanted to steal the *Interceptor* and raid, pillage and plunder your weasely black guts out. That doesn't sound so peaceable to me."  
  
Sparrow waved a dismissive hand, saying irritably, "If ye don't want to hear what happened next ..."  
  
"Hush, Mullroy! Let the man talk!"  
  
The fat soldier sighed and rolled his eyes skyward.  
  
Jack leaned forward, narrowing his gaze. "Now as I was saying, I had received a personal invitation to visit the rum runners' encampment. All I had for protection was my sword, and a pistol with a single shot."  
  
"A single shot? What man goes about with a pistol with only a single shot?"  
  
"Shhh! Go on, Mr. Smith."  
  
"And it was as bad as I imagined it would be." Sparrow paused dramatically, letting the tension build. "Schmidt led a band of inhuman brutes, he did. The biggest, meanest, cruelest devils to ever sail the seven seas. They had a group of fine ladies they kept just for their own pleasure; and they had the bodies of the ladies' husbands strung from trees. And those men was the lucky ones, mate."  
  
"The lucky ones?"  
  
Jack Sparrow nodded intently. Whispered, "Because they was already dead."  
  
"Oh ..."  
  
"And this Captain Schmidt? What of him?"  
  
"Ah," Sparrow said, easing his words out on a sigh, "Schmidt was the worst of the whole lot. A vicious man whose murderous appetites could not be assuaged. When I come upon them, he'd just finished ravishin' two sweet young girls. And the nun chaperoning 'em."  
  
"Three women all at once? And one of them a nun?"  
  
"Poor things ..." Murtogg sighed regretfully.  
  
********************  
  
After refusing another meager dinner of roasted bugs, accepting the fruit, then extricating himself from Tula's possessive grasp, Captain Jack Sparrow made his slow, limping way eastward through the jungle toward the rum runners' encampment. Despite what Schmidt might have planned, this would be a business meeting, start to finish.  
  
The camp, Jack discovered glumly, was precisely what he had expected. Exactly as he had known another camp to be nine years ... no, ten years ... earlier. He stepped inside the ring of firelight and cleared his throat expectantly.  
  
The overwhelming aroma of roasting pork made his mouth water.  
  
"Ah! Jack, my boy!" Captain Schmidt, wearing an elaborate purple surcoat, lounged beside the campfire and sipped from an ornate silver goblet. Snuggled close beside him was a lad far too pretty for his own good; a boy of about twenty with a still-smooth face, curly dark hair and midnight blue eyes.  
  
The other sailors, about eight men all told, gave Schmidt and his young catamite a wide berth as they busied themselves with eating or drinking deeply from bottles of rum; though most also found time to scowl in the visitor's direction. They were big, lumbering brutes ... Schmidt's tastes were specific, hiring only the burliest men for his sailors; while preferring sleeker lines for his personal companions. In flickering yellow firelight, Sparrow saw a long line of dead pigs and hen-like birds hanging down from palm trees; like those killed by Remy's men, the bodies had been gutted and left to drain. A grisly boundary to the beach camp. Appalling too, considering the people with the most right to the meat were slowly starving.  
  
Jack forced a smile as Schmidt waved him over. "Come on, lad, sit here." Coyly, he patted a bejeweled hand on the sand beside him, eliciting a surly pout from the boy.  
  
"Aye," Sparrow answered gruffly, and sat down on the opposite side of the fire.  
  
Schmidt sighed and shook his head. "So, ten years later and ve still play this game, eh, Jack? Not yet come to your senses?"  
  
"Nothin' personal, Rich. You're just not my type."  
  
"Ah, vell, no hard feelings." Schmidt tossed Jack an unopened bottle of rum. "Here then, my friend. Its on the house."  
  
Jack pulled the cork out and took a long drag on the bottle. It burned going down, just like good rum was supposed to. Definitely the best thing he'd had to drink since ... well, since before the bloody shipwreck. Nodding appreciatively, he wiped his mouth on a sleeve. "You always did know the quality stuff, Rich."  
  
"Yes," Schmidt said, suggestively touching his boy's cheek.  
  
"So," Sparrow went on, eying the two intently, "who's your new play pretty?"  
  
"I am *not* ..." the kid began hotly. His voice was deeper than Sparrow would have imagined.  
  
Schmidt hushed his companion with a finger pressed lightly across beardless lips. "This is Neddy, Jack. A sweet lad. Aren't you, my precious?"  
  
Neddy smiled and cast his eyes demurely downward.  
  
But Sparrow's attention, which wandered at the best of times, had already been diverted elsewhere. "And who's she?" he asked, indicating with his bottle a shadowed figure to the right.  
  
"Her?" Schmidt shrugged disinterest. "Says she vas here catching turtles for trade in Tortuga. Tried to pass herself off as a boy vhen ve found her. Silly vench, she's not pretty enough to be a boy."  
  
That seemed a matter of opinion, for Jack found her easy enough on the eye. She was a pretty lass with jet black hair, flashing dark eyes, and with skin a light cocoa brown. Aye, she was dressed as a boy, but only a blind man would have failed to notice the shapely form underneath those baggy breeches, shirt and boots.  
  
At the moment she was rather inconveniently gagged, with her wrists tied round a palm tree by a length of rope. Not the most comfortable roost, hugging a bloody tree that way. But then, Captain Schmidt was well-known for his less than hospitable manners.  
  
"Why've ye got her all trussed up like that?" Jack inquired conversationally, and took another long pull on the rum.  
  
Schmidt shrugged. "The men complained vhen I offered to release her, so I promised them they could have her vhen ve're finished here. But only if they're good boys and keep avay from the *Majestic."*  
  
That seemed a rather harsh punishment for a pretty little chit doing harm to no one but sea turtles. Not that Jack Sparrow was known for his chivalry, far from it, but ...  
  
But.  
  
He tilted his head, sending beads and coins swaying, glinting in firelight, and studied the woman more closely. Her hair was straighter and softer- looking than that of the natives. Her skin was more creamy than the native's golden bronze. And she was certainly more slender and delicate than the robust Tula and her female kin.  
  
But.  
  
He drank deeply, considering.  
  
Maybe it was the rum spreading its warmth through his blood. Maybe it was one of those bizarre bursts of brilliance for which Captain Jack Sparrow was so famous. Whatever the cause, possibilities like flowers blossomed in the clever pirate's mind.  
  
"I'll buy her from you," he said suddenly.  
  
"Buy her?" Schmidt laughed softly. "Vhatever for, vhen I can let you borrow Neddy for free?" To which Neddy, though silent, took great offense.  
  
Bartering ... also known as 'getting his way' ... was one of Sparrow's many skills. His expression firmed with determination, his back straightened proudly, and he took on the confidence of a man who would brook no argument.  
  
He said, "When you got me off that bloody rock ten years ago, I paid you in gold, did I not?"  
  
"Aye, vonce ve reached Tortuga." Schmidt pulled away from his catamite and sat up, his pale eyes behind their spectacles noting the shift in Sparrow's posture and reappraising him accordingly.  
  
"When you've gotten me and Arriaga's crew off *this* bloody rock, I will throw in extra for possession of the girl. Savvy?"  
  
Schmidt smiled slyly. "And who says I vill save any of you?"  
  
"You will save Frank's crew because you owe him a favor. Or do you not recall the incident on Barbados?"  
  
"Oh. That. Ja, I recall it."  
  
Sparrow's kohled eyes narrowed. "Frank did not require recompense when he saved you from bein' murdered by those thugs. You are the one who promised a favor in return."  
  
"Ja, ja, I said I remembered it!"  
  
"So, in Frank Arriaga's memory, ye will transport his men from this island to a safe port. Agreed?"  
  
Schmidt sighed. "Ja, alright. If you can get them free vithout bringing Remy's men down on us. I vill not risk my own men."  
  
"I will get them to you," Jack said quietly. "And on my own life, there will be no threat to you or your men."  
  
"Fine. But Jack," Schmidt added with a smooth grin, "who says I vill save *you* again?"  
  
"Gold says it," Sparrow replied. "Gold says you will sell me the girl *and* save us both."  
  
The rum runner captain studied the pirate captain for a long, cool moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Alright, then. I imagine the men vill get over their disappointment vhen you've put gold in *all* their hands."  
  
"Do we have an accord then?" Jack Sparrow asked, extending his arm across the campfire.  
  
"Ja, ve have one," Schmidt replied almost reluctantly. But he shook on the deal anyway.  
  
Sparrow drank deeply of rum, then slanted his gaze toward the woman. "I'd rather fancy takin' her with me now, Rich. Night's not getting' no younger, if you catch me drift?" He smiled crookedly and corked the bottle.  
  
Schmidt gestured to one his men. "Phillipe, be a good lad and cut our little turtle hunter loose for Captain Sparrow." The man, Phillipe, grumbled but did as he was told, slicing through the rope; and as the woman's arms drooped, he grabbed them together and retied them in front of her. Her eyes above the gag were bright. Not with fear exactly. Not exactly with fury either, but rather with some strange admixture of the two. An interesting chit, this one.  
  
Jack smiled his thanks and rose. Balancing precariously, as was his wont, he offered a casual salute to the rum runner and his resentful companion. "It has been a pleasure, gentlemen."  
  
"Not as much as I vould have liked," Schmidt grinned, eliciting another sulky pout from young Neddy.  
  
Still grumbling, Phillipe shoved the woman toward Sparrow, making her stumble across the sand. Jack caught her, steadied her, and was rewarded by a baleful glare of dark eyes. He smiled, took up the length of rope binding her wrists, and said, "G'night, Rich."  
  
"Auf wiedersehen, Jack. Have a ... pleasant night."  
  
"Come along, darlin," Jack told the woman gruffly, and led her by her wrists into the shadow-draped jungle. She showed her stubbornness by holding back, making him pull her along step by reluctant step; it made his side and leg ache worse, half-dragging her that way, but there seemed no help for it. Therefore, it was quite some time before they had traversed enough distance that Jack deemed it safe to speak.  
  
********************  
  
"I think the nun rather like it though," Jack Sparrow said thoughtfully. He rubbed at his beaded whiskers. "Kinda like forbidden fruit, but without all that nasty burnin' in hell part afterwards what comes from doin' it willing-like."  
  
"Mr. Smith!"  
  
"Sister Nadine, her name was. Or Naddy, as Schmidt called her. She was all lusty-eyed, hangin' on him all the time, beggin' for his attention. I felt sorry for the girls though. Sweet little things, they was, all teary- eyed and sad. Anna was one's name. Maria was the other. So's I challenged Captain Schmidt to a duel of honor. I win, I gets the girls. He wins, and I die."  
  
"So what happened?" Murtogg asked, thoroughly engrossed in the tale.  
  
"Well, he ain't dead, is he?" Mullroy said derisively.  
  
"Oh, but the battle was fierce, gents! Schmidt was a big as a mountain, and mean as I told ye before. He drew first blood. Here." Sparrow indicated a patched spot on the thigh of his breeches, dark with old bloodstain. "But I didn't let that stop me, oh no! The battle lasted half the night, till dawn was threatenin' to break the sky. And finally, worn down by my skill and determination, Schmidt surrendered both his sword and the two girls."  
  
"That's amazing. Isn't that amazing?"  
  
"Mmmm," the heavy soldier answered. "And I suppose those girls were right grateful to you for rescuing them?"  
  
Sparrow's eyes gleamed. "Aye, they was grateful all right. As only fine, well-bred ladies can be once they don't have virtue holding 'em back no more."  
  
********************  
  
Without warning Jack Sparrow tossed his rum bottle on the vine-cushioned ground, pushed the woman's back against a tree trunk and placed his hands on either side of her shoulders, keeping her there. He leaned in close, so close their noses almost touched. He stared deep into her eyes, trying his best to ignore the allure of her anxiously heaving bosom pressed against his chest.  
  
"If I remove this gag, do ye promise not to scream?"  
  
Her eyes searched his face. Slowly, she nodded.  
  
He reached for the gag. Stopped his fingers just short of touching it. "If you do scream, the only ones who'll hear are the men I just rescued you from. You know that?"  
  
She sighed and offered a second, vastly unhappy nod.  
  
"Alright then, luv. Just so's we understand each other." He slipped the gag down around her throat. When she didn't scream, he let himself relax just a little. "What's your name?"  
  
"AnaMaria," she murmured.  
  
"Now then, AnaMaria, I'm going to untie your hands. But not just yet. I want you to listen first." Her answer was silence. Sparrow leaned in a little closer, enjoying the musky sea-spray scent of her. Her breath against his mouth was warm; her lips plump and inviting. He had to remind himself that it was all business tonight.  
  
"Are you going to rape me?" she asked suddenly. Her tone was fierce, but Jack heard an undertone of fear there as well.  
  
"I'm not in the habit of takin' what's not freely given." He frowned thoughtfully. "Well, not *that* anyway."  
  
AnaMaria's brow furrowed in puzzlement.  
  
"Now darlin," Sparrow went on, tilting his head, "we have ourselves a little situation here, and I need your help in solvin' it."  
  
"A ... situation?"  
  
"That's right. We have a group of unfortunate sailors I need to rescue. We have rum runners itching to collect their cache. We have *Majestic's* Captain Remy who would simply love to stretch my neck on a noose, and he'd gladly include the sailors and all the rum runners too just for good measure. We also have my native friends who are presently starving to death because of all the bloody white men eatin' their game. And then we have you."  
  
"Me?"  
  
Sparrow leaned in even closer. Against her ear, he whispered, "You have a boat, AnaMaria. Do you not?"  
  
"Aye," the woman answered uncertainly. "A piragua." A piragua was a small boat, really more a glorified canoe, with a single sail to catch the wind. In a pinch it could transport a good dozen or so passengers, though it was actually designed to carry only one or two. The pirate envisioned rescuing Jenkins and the others with a single piragua; he sighed heavily as that particular possibility shattered to bits.  
  
Jack shifted away so he stood alongside AnaMaria, leaning a shoulder beside hers on the tree trunk, carefully relieving some of the pressure from his leg and ribcage. He rubbed gingerly at his side, saying more to himself than to the woman, "I could arrange for Remy to capture Schmidt and his men; but then their ship would be either confiscated or scuttled, and we'll need it to transport *Fury's* crew to safety. After we get them free."  
  
"*Fury?*"  
  
"Aye. And then there is the issue of us getting' back to Tortuga on your little boat. *Without* bein' fired upon by the British Navy." He sighed unhappily. "*Or* the rum runners."  
  
AnaMaria studied his moonlit profile. "Who are you?" she finally asked.  
  
A flash of white teeth, and gold, and Jack answered, "I'm nobody, luv. Just a poor lost mariner tryin' to make the best of a bad situation." He glanced regretfully at the nearby bottle of rum. A few more swallows would help deaden his aches and pains; pity was that he had thrown it down where he'd have to bend to get it.  
  
"Untie me," the woman said. She raised her bound wrists toward him.  
  
Sparrow considered her for a long moment. As if uncertain himself, almost pleading, he asked her, "We have an understanding, do we not? Because if you go runnin' off, luv, I can't chase you down just now."  
  
In answer, AnaMaria's lips firmed and she thrust her wrists nearer.  
  
"The sad truth," Jack admitted, "is that the storm battered me up a bit. If you go runnin' off and let Schmidt and his dull-eyed miscreants catch you alone, I'm afraid you'll get no gallant rescue from old Jack. Savvy?"  
  
"Jack, is it? Untie me, Jack." Her gaze was level, direct. And her acquiescence notably absent.  
  
Knowing he was making a mistake, still Sparrow reluctantly slashed through her bindings with his dagger. Scowling fiercely, AnaMaria removed the rope and threw it as far as she was able, an angry, defiant gesture. She rubbed at her bruised wrists, then turned scathing eyes back on the man before her.  
  
Sparrow smiled amiably. "It really won't be that bad, luv. A little deception spread round the lot of 'em, and then you and I shall set sail for Tortuga. I'll even buy you something when we get there. A fine pretty dress maybe? Or maybe a sparkly necklace? What say you, Ana?"  
  
The woman's scowl deepened as she asked flatly, "Do I look to you like I wear dresses?"  
  
"Well ..." Jack grinned soothingly, "you look like you *could,* luv. Easily. And be the bell of any ball that you ..."  
  
Without warning, AnaMaria whirled, caught up the rum bottle and whirled back with the bottle aimed squarely at his face. Sparrow stumbled aside, tripped when his leg failed him, and landed hard on the ground. Face crunched against the pain, he watched in dismay as his one and only ally scampered off into the darkness.  
  
At least he could reach the rum now.  
  
Lips twisting, he took up the bottle, uncorked it and drank long and deep, hoping the rum's medicinal qualities would kick in soon; he had a long walk back to the village and he didn't fancy tackling it sober. Moving with care, he eased his back against the tree trunk with his legs stuck straight out before him. And drank some more. Eventually he became aware that he was not alone.  
  
AnaMaria's face peered through the shrubbery. When she realized he had seen her, she stepped cautiously from behind her leafy concealment and walked toward him, arms folded stubbornly across her chest.  
  
"You're hurt," she said accusingly.  
  
Glancing down, Sparrow saw the new stain spreading across the old one on his breeches, glistening wetly in the pale moonlight. "I told you I was, didn't I?" He frowned quizzically, studying the growing spot. "Though I didn't expect it to do that again. Oh well." He took a long draught of the rum.  
  
AnaMaria stepped closer. She squatted, watching him drink. She pretzeled her legs and sat down facing him. When he lowered the bottle, she extended her hand to take it.  
  
"Ah," Jack smiled, "a woman after me own heart." He stretched out his arm to give it to her.  
  
Instead, she grabbed his arm with one hand and shoved up his sleeve with the other. There, emblazoned on the inside of his wrist, an utterly distinctive 'P' was branded into his flesh.  
  
"You're a pirate," she said flatly, releasing him.  
  
"Am I?" Jack said, feigning surprise. He glanced at his wrist, frowning. "Why bless me, so I am! I had no idea. Let's drink to piracy then, shall we, lass? What say ye to that?"  
  
"So that's why you said Remy would hang you. What's your name?" she asked him sharply. She searched his face, seeking clues there.  
  
"I am," he said, flourishing the bottle, "Captain Jack Sparrow, at your service, madam."  
  
"Captain Jack Sparrow." Was that disbelief in her voice? Skepticism? "My husband used to talk about signing on with one of your ventures. Said you always delivered the prize, and never spilt unnecessary blood doing it." She took the bottle from Jack and upended it, taking a long swallow. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and handed the bottle back again. "But he said Captain Sparrow was nigh seven feet tall with a voice that boomed like thunder and eyes that flashed lightning." She cast a doubting glance along Sparrow's smaller, less menacing frame and countenance.  
  
Jack offered a disparaging smile. "You're not seein' me at my best tonight, luv." He frowned as her words sank in through the slowly growing alcohol haze. "Your husband's a pirate then?"  
  
"*Was* a pirate," AnaMaria clarified, looking away.  
  
"Ah." Sparrow nodded thoughtfully, his kohl-darkened eyes narrowing sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Ana. I know what its like, losin' someone you care for very much."  
  
The woman offered only a huff of disgust at his consolation, turned back and said stiffly, "All those things you were saying earlier. All that drabble about the Royal Navy being here, and the natives starving. How much of it was true?" She took the rum, took another drink.  
  
"Well, *all* of it, Ana. Do'ye think I could make up crazy stories like that?"  
  
AnaMaria thrust the bottle back to him. Said determinedly, "Then let's leave here, Jack. You and me, in my boat. You got me away from Schmidt, so I'll get you away from this island. It'll square us, ye understand?"  
  
Jack's thoughts were nicely fuzzy by then, with the rum's warmth singing in his blood. Though he technically wasn't yet drunk, he began to realize that blood loss and a diet of only fruit helped quicken the alcohol's progression. It was something to remember.  
  
Oh, but AnaMaria had asked him something. Something important. She had offered him a deal.  
  
Reluctantly, he shook his head. "I can't leave a friend's crew to die, Ana. I can't leave them with Remy." He looked deep into her eyes, and suddenly knew what would sway her. Softly, he added, "You were a pirate's wife yourself, luv. Any of those men could have been yours. Would ye have left your own dear husband to swing on the gallows? Would you have wanted me to?"  
  
It moved her, just as he expected; if there was one thing Jack Sparrow understood it was women. He knew them; knew how to persuade them.  
  
Her lips compressed. Her eyes were full of trepidation. But all AnaMaria said, her voice dripping sarcasm, was, "And I suppose you have a plan?"  
  
Jack grinned sweetly. "I have a plan."  
  
"Then tell me what it is."  
  
"Not just yet, luv." He recorked the bottle. Flinching, he pulled himself more fully upright against the tree. "I'll tell you on the way back to the village." He raised his arm outward toward her, wincing as his ribs protested the movement. "I think I could use a little help getting up here. If you'd be so kind?" He put on his most endearing, his most charmingly helpless expression.  
  
AnaMaria scowled deeply, but slipped obediently beneath his arm. Clasping his hand against her shoulder, she said, "On count of three then. One. Two. *Three."*  
  
Sparrow kept from moaning when she helped haul him up. But he leaned heavily against the tree afterwards, unable to move until he'd gathered himself against the pain and the spinning landscape.  
  
"You shouldn't have had so much to drink," AnaMaria chided him.  
  
"Nonsense, darlin. Best medicine in the world. Me own mother used to feed me rum instead of milk when I was a teethin' baby."  
  
"Oh. Well. That explains so much then, doesn't it?"  
  
Jack pursed his lips as he considered her words. "You know, Ana, I think I might need some help getting' back to the village." He grinned crookedly and raised his arm again.  
  
AnaMaria cast him a poisonous glare, but moved dutifully beneath his arm. A perfect fit, Sparrow thought, admiring moonlight's gleam on her black head and creamy brown skin. She was just the right size to fit there nicely. A man could get used to it.  
  
Her eyes flashed his way. "Don't you be getting no funny ideas, Mr. Sparrow."  
  
"*Captain* Sparrow," Jack reminded her.  
  
"Captains have ships," AnaMaria said tersely as they started walking. "From what I gather, you don't."  
  
Sparrow sighed. "Yes. I suppose once I get off this bloody rock I'll have to finally do somethin' about that."  
  
******************** 


	3. And Then They Made Me Their Chief, Chapt...

"... And Then They Made Me Their Chief ..."  
  
Chapter THREE  
  
by Saahira 10-11-03  
  
"So the next morning was the big battle then. Right, Mr. Smith? The natives against the rum runners?"  
  
Mullroy sighed. "Hadn't he been saying he was trying to avoid a fight? Don't you listen, Murtogg?"  
  
The thin soldier pulled back, insulted. "Course I listen. I *always* listen. But how could he avoid it, with everybody being so bloodthirsty like they were?"  
  
"Oh, I have a feeling he'll come up with something. Storytelling being what it is."  
  
"You think Mr. Smith's lying then?"  
  
"Actually," Jack interrupted, his eyes narrowing, "you're both right. I was tryin' to avoid a battle, but it was inevitable. After all, what can one poor man do against so many angry brutes?"  
  
"So like I said, the next morning was the big battle. Was it terrible, Mr. Smith?"  
  
"Oh, aye, it was awful. The natives spent the whole morning sharpening their weapons and puttin' on their wooden armor. And their war paint, they had that too."  
  
"And the women was still naked?"  
  
Sparrow grinned. "They was still naked. Bare to the skin and proud to be showin' it."  
  
"And your new lady friends, Anna and Maria. How did they fare the night, poor things?"  
  
"Ah yes, Anna and sweet Maria." He shrugged. "You might say they went native, as it were."  
  
********************  
  
"I feel *ridiculous!*" AnaMaria spat. She tugged on the sarong, pulling it down and out and up again, endlessly. It was a pretty piece of fabric, Jack thought, all in vibrant shades of red and purple and turquoise. It left her shoulders, arms and neck deliciously bare. Likewise her legs, which proved to be long and slender once the baggy trousers were removed. "I *hate* this! I feel naked!" Though she wasn't, damn the luck. And the sarong covered much more of her shapely body than it did Tula's rotund one. At least all her private bits were covered, even if it wasn't considered decent by so-called civilized standards.  
  
"You look lovely, Ana. Truly." And she did. Though she probably wouldn't be pleased it if she knew how very much he appreciated the sight.  
  
She rounded on him. For an instant, Sparrow thought she would hit him. But all she did was waggle an irate finger in his face and say, "Yes, I do. But that doesn't mean I like it."  
  
Jack smiled placatingly. "You don't have to wear it for long, luv. Just for a *little* while. Just long enough to sell your story to our friend Captain Remy."  
  
She glanced above to the jungle's leafy canopy, her lips crimping in embarrassment. Forlornly: "I hate this."  
  
"It'll all be over soon, Ana." He started to touch her arm, a gesture of support and camaraderie, but quickly changed his mind. He rather fancied keeping the hand.  
  
AnaMaria looked past their wall of shrubbery at the British encampment where Remy gave orders, men toiled, and the prisoners sat in despondent silence.  
  
"Two appearances," Jack went on soothingly. "You can do it, luv."  
  
AnaMaria sighed. "Tell me again why *you* aren't doing this."  
  
Sparrow grinned broadly. "Well, for one thing I don't look as good in that little bit of cloth as you do." Her murderous glare vanquished his smile. More seriously, he added, "I told you, Remy knows me, luv. He'd arrest me straight away without listenin' to a single word of our story. Besides, you know I couldn't outrun his men just now." He winced melodramatically and hugged at his ribcage.  
  
"When you are well again," AnaMaria promised grimly, "I'm going to beat the hell out of you."  
  
Jack smiled. "Go on with you now, darlin. Spin your lovely tale for our friends and we can be on our way to Tortuga by this time tomorrow."  
  
AnaMaria drew in a long, deep breath of courage. And thus fortified, she stepped out on the beach.  
  
"Well, go on with you," Sparrow commanded gruffly, and a half dozen of Syull's scrawny, naked little comrades scampered out behind her. Tula, however, hung back.  
  
"Jick ..." she began. She was frightened, afraid of Remy's men.  
  
"Go on now, luv," Sparrow told her reassuringly. He took her hand, squeezed it gently. "You'll be fine, ye will. Just remember your part, aye? You're the most important part of our little ruse; we can't pull it off without ye."  
  
Tula nodded bravely and waddled out behind the others.  
  
The chief of the Cas'ambenga frowned up into Jack Sparrow's face. "I see why Queenies no want you. You crazy man."  
  
Jack smiled cheekily. "So they say, mate."  
  
"Making eye at mean stick woman, making no eye at pretty Tula." He shook his head sorrowfully.  
  
Sparrow leaned conspiratorially close, saying, "After this mess is over and all the Queenies leave, you can start plumpin' your lovely daughter up even more, and soon she'll have so many fine suitors she won't even remember old Jack was ever here."  
  
Syull sighed. "You right." He scrutinized Jack carefully. "Tula need pretty husband, make pretty babies. You look too much like Queenie."  
  
Sparrow frowned slightly, unsure if he should be insulted or not.  
  
But by then AnaMaria had caught the eye of *Majestic's* captain and crew and they stood facing one another on the sand, with his soldiers spread behind him, and with AnaMaria's naked gnomes behind her. The wind carried the sounds of their voices, but not the meanings. But since Jack Sparrow had scripted every word, every nuance of every word, had orchestrated every move and every gesture, he simply waited, not needing to hear it to know it.  
  
There. That was AnaMaria declaring herself queen of the Cas'ambenga. And that wave of her hand, that was her indicating the extent of her domain and how proud she was of it as she welcomed the *Majestic's* crew to her island's sunny shores. Ah, yes ... the bowed head. The hint of sorrow in her voice.  
  
It had begun.  
  
She told the sad story of the plague cutting her people down. The agony, the fevers. The delirium and final convulsions. The pain-wracked, gruesome death that followed.  
  
Especially the gruesome death.  
  
She urged Remy and his men to depart her island kingdom. Or suffer the same heinous fate as her subjects.  
  
Then it was Tula's turn. She turned as if only just spotting the prisoners. With a squeal of delight ... it didn't sound feigned, that lusty bellow; but then, everyone knew she had a soft spot for Queenies ... she wobbled, bounced. bobbled and shimmied toward them, then collapsed like a felled water buffalo in their midst.  
  
"Syull?" Sparrow frowned curiously. "You did send someone to explain all this to Jenkins and his men last night, did you not?"  
  
"I go, I tell. They know."  
  
"Oh. Good then. I wouldn't want your bonny lass to catch them unawares."  
  
AnaMaria screamed the girl's name and Tula turned, doing a fairly well- played approximation of shame. While Tula clamored ponderously to her feet and regretfully shuffled back to her tribe, AnaMaria quickly explained that Jenkins had wed the lass on the pirates' last stop at the island, before the onset of illness. But now, alack and alas, to the terrible dismay of everyone involved, this one brief contact with Tula meant that Jenkins and the other prisoners were quite thoroughly infected with the nasty and utterly pernicious disease currently killing her people. Cramps, fevers, and a tortuous demise to be had by all. Et cetera, etc.  
  
The lovely queen of the Cas'ambenga graciously offered to remove the contagion from *Majestic's* crew by removing the prisoners to die within the confines of her own village. Naturally enough, a doubting Remy refused, and who could blame him? He was the shining gem in Britain's royal crown. He was a man who would not be fooled so easily.  
  
When AnaMaria and the others returned, Jack Sparrow beamed his pleasure at them. "That went fine, mates! Just fine!"  
  
"Fine?" AnaMaria, still tugging at the sarong, glowered at him. "How can you say that? They didn't give up the prisoners."  
  
"But they will, luv. Just give 'em time."  
  
"Tula do good?" Tula inquired hopefully.  
  
"Did you slip the bag to Jenkins like I told ye?"  
  
"UhHuh," she answered. Then corrected herself to, "Aye, Kiptin!"  
  
"There's a good lass." He patted her cheek, and she nearly swooned with pleasure.  
  
"So now what?" AnaMaria asked, casting a dismissive glance at the smitten island girl.  
  
"We wait," Sparrow told her. "Until this afternoon. By tonight it'll all be over."  
  
"How can you sound so certain?" AnaMaria asked him.  
  
Sparrow grinned proudly. "That's simple, luv. I'm Captain Jack Sparrow. Savvy?"  
  
********************  
  
"And so the battle raged, gentlemen. For six days and seven nights, the rum runners and the natives slaughtered one another."  
  
"*Sure* they did. They waged war on a little speck of an island without Captain Remy and his men ever catching wind of it?"  
  
"Mr. Smith said it was a big island, remember?"  
  
"It couldn't be that big. Could it, *Mr. Smith?*"  
  
The man called Mullroy was definitely getting on Jack Sparrow's nerves. A bloody Doubting Thomas, that's what he was, not believing a single word Jack said. A damned nuisance, that! Still, he was gullible enough to sit there with his partner listening to tales told by a pirate rather than minding his post. That fact boded quite well for *Interceptor's* forthcoming liberation. It shouldn't even be too difficult. Sparrow would visit Port Royal's taverns that night and pick a likely-looking man or two to aid him. By morning, the ship would be his. He'd sail for Tortuga, acquire a proper crew and provisions, and *Interceptor* would be well on her way to becoming a first class pirate vessel. She wasn't the *Black Pearl* ... no ship could ever take his lovely *Pearl's* place ... but she would serve him well enough until the day Barbossa fell. And after all, with a ship of his own with which to chase the *Pearl* down, it wouldn't be much longer before she was his again, would it?  
  
"No answer, Mr. Smith?"  
  
"What?" Jack shook himself back to awareness. Both men were staring at him expectantly; one anxious for the story to continue, one for the story not to. Sparrow offered an easy grin, an almost flirtatious grin, and said, "Sorry, lads. Private thoughts."  
  
Mullroy persisted, "So how did you keep *Majestic* out of the conflict?"  
  
"Oh, that. I didn't have to."  
  
"And *why* didn't you have to?"  
  
"Because God did it for me."  
  
"God, Mr. Smith?" the thinner soldier inquired. "How's that?" While the bloody Doubting Thomas rolled his eyes heavenward.  
  
"He set a contagion upon them. They was incapacitated by illness, as it were."  
  
"We heard about that!" Murtogg exclaimed excitedly. "You remember, Mullroy? About six months ago, just like Mr. Smith here says!"  
  
"Hmmm," the heavier soldier replied noncommittally.  
  
"And a fierce disease it was, mates. It swept through *Majestic's* ranks, droppin' men left and right."  
  
"I heard they had no casualties from it." Mullroy again, damn him.  
  
"That's right," Jack quickly temporized. "They turned their rudder to the island and left it before the disease could strike them worse. If they'd stayed any longer, they'd have all been dead men."  
  
********************  
  
By late that afternoon, Remy's camp was in chaos. A very calm, orderly and well-orchestrated sort of military chaos, but chaos nonetheless. *Majestic's* hull repairs had been completed earlier in the day, and soldiers were carrying provisions back aboard with abnormal haste. Like industrious little worker ants, Jack Sparrow decided with satisfaction, the men almost bumbling into one another in their rush. All while their chained prisoners languished in the sand, their faces and bodies covered with grievously noticeable pustules.  
  
Thank God for besalaya berries. That one bagful which Tula had dropped for the men to eat had been more than enough to confirm their contagion.  
  
"And ye poured a bit of berry juice on those carcasses too, eh?" Sparrow inquired, watching as the hogs and hens were also taken aboard ship.  
  
"Lots of juice," Syull agreed.  
  
"Good," Jack grinned. "Wouldn't want our friends decidin' they'd been tricked after all. A little outbreak at sea should cure them of those nigglin' thoughts." As the last of the supplies were removed from the beach and Captain Remy prepared to follow them, Sparrow turned to AnaMaria. "You're on, darlin."  
  
"I hate you," AnaMaria said fervently, a sentiment made no less ardent by her half-clad, sarong-wrapped state.  
  
Jack smiled charmingly. "You only say that now, luv. You'll change your mind later."  
  
"No, I won't." Lips firmed and hands fisted, she strode out on the beach.  
  
"Go on," Jack told the straggling natives, "and don't forget to make it look good."  
  
Tula and a half-dozen scrawny men ... all of them pocked from eating besalaya berries ... followed behind AnaMaria. As the "Queen" went into her impassioned diatribe, one of the little men began shaking. Sparrow grimaced, because he looked more like he suffered from bugs in his breeches than convulsions from sickness. Still, it needn't be an award winning performance to be effective. As the poor fellow leapt into the air and then collapsed in the sand, struggling valiantly against death, Tula shrieked an ear-splitting shriek, tossed her pudgy arms wide and fell spread-eagled. She began twitching spasmodically, the movement causing her flesh to roll like waves on a stormy ocean. The tongue sticking out the side of her mouth was a nice touch; he'd have to remember to compliment her on that one later.  
  
AnaMaria, right on cue, again offered to take the hopelessly ill prisoners to her village to die far away from Remy and the HMS *Majestic's* loyal crew. After all, there was no sense infecting men who might otherwise escape contagion; not for the sake of prisoners destined for the gallows anyway. She asked only that the key to their chains be left so that the men could be buried individually as they died, rather than waiting until they had all perished. Digging a huge mass grave was ever so much more bothersome than digging small single ones.  
  
Jenkins suddenly began doing a bit of convulsing himself. Sparrow smiled, pleased that the man showed such initiative. When Samuels joined him, and then some of the others, Jack Sparrow's chest swelled with gladness. Never had he been so proud to be a pirate.  
  
The end came swiftly. A toss of a key to the sand. The sand billowing from the heels of men retreating (running) to the safety of their ship. Captain Remy did not run, but he did walk at a fairly clipped pace.  
  
Ah. The glory of a well-laid plan come to fruition.  
  
***  
  
"Sorry, Rich," Jack Sparrow panted. He glanced behind his shoulder as if anticipating something awful. "They're close on our tails. Couldn't help it. Remy's as cagey as they say he is. And dangerous, mate."  
  
Schmidt's worried gaze followed Sparrow's toward the jungle. He glanced at AnaMaria who, dressed in her comfortable shirt, breeches and boots again, gave a fair performance herself of looking flushed and frightened. Captain Arriaga's men simply looked tired.  
  
"And you svear those spots are just food poisoning, ja?" It was a sign of Schmidt's trust in Jack that he would take the pirate's word regarding something so potentially devastating to a ship.  
  
"I swear it, Rich, on my life. Its these blasted berries." He thrust a fistful into Schmidt's hand. "They make the spots. I thought if *Fury's* crew looked diseased, Remy would leave 'em behind. But Remy's a monster, he is. So damned concerned with carryin' out the law, he don't even care if his own men die doin' it. I swear it's the truth, Rich." He gave the smuggler captain big, innocent, desperately sincere eyes. It *was* the truth, after all. Well, most of it.  
  
"I believe you," Schmidt said very slowly. Worriedly, he took Neddy's hand in his while the boy pressed closer against him, round-eyed with terror.  
  
Sparrow nodded, swallowing dramatically hard. "There's not much time, Rich. Ye have to forget about your cache. Hell, forget ye ever *seen* this bloody island! Board your ship and set sail now, man. *Now!* Before the Royal Navy sweeps down on all of us."  
  
Schmidt nodded to Phillipe and his other crewmen. They moved to their longboats, taking Jenkins and the others with them. "Alright then, Jack. You and the voman come along."  
  
"No." Sparrow shook his head. "I promised I'd let no harm befall ye, Rich, and I'm a man of my word. The woman and I will stay behind. We'll distract Remy's men long enough for you to get away. It's the least I can do for getting' ye into this mess."  
  
Schmidt frowned. "But vhat if they catch you, Jack? They'll hang you."  
  
"Well, I don't plan on getting caught," Jack assured him truthfully. His eyes narrowed. "But this'll square us, eh, Rich? My help getting' you safely away from Remy's soldiers *instead* of payin' ye gold. That's worth one little chit, innit?"  
  
The rum runner turned appraising eyes on AnaMaria. Jack held his breath.  
  
But then Neddy was tugging on Schmidt's hand, anxious to leave, and Schmidt surrendered to his catamite's terror. "Alright. Yes, ve're square, Jack. Be careful though, ja?"  
  
"I will." The two men shook hands on their agreement, and Jack watched smugly as the whole crew of them rowed out to their waiting ship. "Ah," the pirate sighed, "now *that* was a job well-done."  
  
AnaMaria shook her head. "I can't believe you pulled it off. The navy is gone, the smugglers are gone, the natives are safe again. And none of them the wiser." She shrugged, smiling wryly. "What now, Jack Sparrow?"  
  
"Now," Sparrow grinned, "we have a cache of rum to find. And then we'll celebrate."  
  
"Celebrate?"  
  
"We'll drink to our success," he affirmed happily. "And then we'll drink some more."  
  
"Sounds fair enough." AnaMaria turned to go.  
  
"Oh, wait up, luv!" Jack called after her. He balanced his weight on one leg, hopping slightly and holding one arm aloft. He smiled endearingly. "Some help here, please?"  
  
AnaMaria scowled. She said flatly, "You walked over here just fine all on your own."  
  
"True," Jack answered quickly, "but I think it was too strenuous for me wounds. I don't think I can make it back without your help." He smiled again, adding a piteous turn to his mouth.  
  
The woman sighed heavily ... really more of a disgusted huff ... but dutifully slipped beneath Jack Sparrow's upraised arm. She ignored the man's pleased grin, and she ignored the intimate way he studied her profile. "Don't get no funny ideas," she muttered angrily.  
  
His grin broadened. "Nuthin funny about what I'm thinking, luv."  
  
***  
  
The moon was high, the bonfire roared, the air was thick with the aroma of roasting meats abandoned by the rum runners, and the rum flowed free and easy. Naked little men brandishing bottles of rum danced clumsy jigs around the flames. Round-faced and -bodied women drank and ate and sang songs to encourage their men's wild gyrations. It was a wonderful night. A magnificent party. A glorious end to a brilliantly well-laid plan.  
  
Captain Jack Sparrow reclined on a blanket spread on the white sand of the beach. For the first time since *Majestic's* attack on the *Fury* his belly was filled with real food, his head was nicely muddled, and all was right with the world. All that, *and* he had a beautiful woman resting on the blanket beside him.  
  
AnaMaria raised her bottle in a wobbling salute. "To the Casuari ... um ... Casapara ..." She grimaced, struggling to form a fuzzy tongue and fuzzier mind around the word. "Casaba, Casemba, Casuba. Casabussa?"  
  
"Cas'ambenga, darlin," Jack supplied helpfully.  
  
"That's it!" AnaMaria exclaimed happily. "To ... *them.*" And she drank more rum.  
  
Jack studied her face in the flickering glow of the bonfire. She had already finished almost half her first bottle of rum. Her face was flushed and rosy, her eyes black, her hair and clothing disheveled, and she was thoroughly off-balance and giddy. Jack Sparrow had never seen a lovelier vision.  
  
"You'd best slow down, Ana," he suggested. "You'll regret drinkin' so much come morning."  
  
"What?" she drawled drunkenly, swaying beside him. "Ye think I can't hold my liquor, Jack Sparrow? I'll have ye know I was a pirate's wife for three years. I've been a pirate myself."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"I dressed as a boy and snuck aboard with my husband. Worked as a pirate for more'n two years, I did. Nobody ever knew."  
  
"I find it hard to believe no one noticed, luv," Sparrow replied, appreciatively eyeing the womanly curves not concealed by her bulky men's clothing.  
  
AnaMaria followed his glance and smiled. Sober, it would have been a beautifully seductive smile. Drunk, it looked more silly than coy. She unbuttoned the top button of her shirt and leaned forward suggestively. "C'mere Jack," she murmured.  
  
Sparrow leaned close, intent on kissing her.  
  
"Jjjjick!" Syull staggered toward them, tripped and fell face first in the sand.  
  
AnaMaria frowned and pulled back. Sparrow sighed heavily.  
  
"What'dye want, Syull?"  
  
"Gooooood," Syull slurred, freeing one hand from the sand long enough to hold aloft a nearly emptied bottle of rum. He spat sand out of his mouth and lifted his beach-crusted face high enough to grin, "Rummmm gooooood."  
  
"Oh yes," Sparrow agreed. "There's none better. Now be a good lad and ..."  
  
"Gooo- *oood gooo-* oood gooo- *oood.*" Syull chanted the word over and over in an off-kilter rhythm as he raised, dropped, struggled onto all fours. He tripped up to his feet and stood swaying precariously. Jack winced up at him, absolutely certain that with a whole beach to pass out on, the little man would topple on top of him. "Jjjjick brinnng juice of godddz." Syull hiccupped loudly.  
  
"Not from the gods exactly," Jack was quick to point out. Syull was turning decidedly green around the edges. It was not a good sign.  
  
"*Godddz!*" Syull affirmed loudly, swinging the bottle about. He stopped abruptly and stared into Jack's face. His curiously crossed eyes grew moist with tears. "I givvve Jick Tulllla!" Hearing her name, the chief's daughter lumbered crookedly to her feet, staggered heavily, tried to catch herself by counterbalancing with her own already emptied rum bottle, then collapsed sideways into a group of little men who were crushed like bugs beneath her. Not noticing, Syull went on, "I givvve Jick Tula. Make ..." he burped hugely, "... make Jjjjick chief of Cas'ambenga." He burped again. No, not good at all.  
  
"Is he crazy?" AnaMaria asked. "Making you chief?"  
  
"He's drunk, luv. Just like you."  
  
"I am *not* drunk, Jack Sparrow!" she protested, drinking more rum.  
  
"Jick," Syull screamed shrilly, thrusting his arms skyward, "is new chief!" Then he burped again and the green won; he collapsed on all fours, vomiting heroically in the defenseless sand.  
  
Watching with distaste, Sparrow became aware of someone tugging on his arm.  
  
"Dance with me, Jack Sparrow."  
  
"Ana," he replied, turning to face her, "I'm not sure that's a good idea just now."  
  
"Are ye afraid of me?" She breathed the words against his lips.  
  
"I just don't want ye spewin' on me, darlin."  
  
Holding one of his hands, she struggled to her feet. "Dance with me, Jack Sparrow."  
  
Jack let himself be coaxed up. She moved into his arms ... fell into them, really ... and began swaying to a tune only she could hear. But her body was warm, and she clung to him so sweetly. He decided dancing wasn't such a bad idea after all.  
  
Then she passed out in his arms and his ribs vociferously protested the woman's dead weight. He lowered AnaMaria back to the sand, sighing sadly.  
  
***  
  
The little piragua caught the wind in her single sail and moved as swiftly and gracefully as one of her larger sisters might. She rode an easy ocean wave, headed for Tortuga.  
  
Jack reclined, enjoying the gentle flapping of the single sail above him. He closed his eyes, turning his face up to catch the sunlight. Beside him were several bottles of confiscated rum. Only one of them was opened, and AnaMaria held it.  
  
She sat across from him. She too was relaxed, leaning her back against the piragua's inner hull, enjoying the warm breeze against her face.  
  
"Headache any better?" Jack inquired, squinting one eye in the woman's direction.  
  
"A little," she replied. She opened her eyes, blinking gingerly. "You were right about the 'hair of the dog' helping."  
  
"Of course I was right, luv. I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."  
  
"Captains have ships," AnaMaria muttered, shutting her sensitive eyes again, "and you have none."  
  
"Well," Jack said, "I was goin' to buy me one with the spoils from San Lucia. Now I 'spose I'll have to steal one."  
  
"Steal one? A *ship?*"  
  
"I hear Port Royal has an excess."  
  
AnaMaria made a rude sound.  
  
"Course, I'll need a way to get to Port Royal in the first place. And since all my wealth is currently residing on the bottom of the ocean ..."  
  
"No."  
  
Sparrow frowned. "You don't know what I was goin' to ask you, darlin."  
  
"The answer is still no. Absolutely no. No."  
  
"No?"  
  
"No way in hell," she elucidated with abundant clarity.  
  
Jack's lips pursed, contemplating this unexpected obstacle in his as yet unformed plans.  
  
"Besides," AnaMaria continued more hotly, "you should be ashamed of yourself, Jack Sparrow. You took advantage of those people."  
  
"*My* people, darlin. Syull made me their chief."  
  
"He was falling-down drunk when he did it. He also offered you his daughter's virtue and I *know* he didn't mean *that.* He probably doesn't even *remember* any of it."  
  
Grinning smugly, Sparrow reminded her, "I seem to recall that you also offered to sacrifice your virtue, Ana."  
  
The woman blushed furiously. "That doesn't count. I was drunk. But those poor people ..."  
  
"I saved their lives, luv. I made sure the Royal Fleet designates their island as quarantined, and I made sure the bloody rum runners don't ever come back neither. I saved their entire culture, Ana." He grinned smugly. "Making me their chief was the only right and proper way folks like them could show their gratitude." He shrugged. "S'not like I'm stayin' there to run things, ye know."  
  
She looked at him askance. "They made you their chief because you got them stinking drunk, Jack! You introduced rum to those poor innocent natives! Those people are like children and you've just managed to make sots of the whole lot of them!"  
  
Sparrow pointed a single finger skyward for emphasis. "Aye. *But* ... the way they're going, the rum won't last another week. After that, things'll settle back down for them. Go back to normal, as it were. A year from now me and the rum'll be naught but a fond memory." He smiled as a thought occurred. "Ye think they'll make me their god of rum, Ana? With altars and ceremonies and ..."  
  
AnaMaria grimaced. "It's a long way to Tortuga. Please just be quiet, Jack. Please?" She leaned back again, sipping delicately at the bottle, looking decidedly hungover.  
  
Sparrow studied her face, admiring the play of sunlight and shadow across her smooth, coffee-toned skin and the jet black wealth of her hair. He eased forward, moving weight onto his knees. He leaned nearer, careful not to upset the little piragua's balance.  
  
Her eyes opened when Jack was only a breath away. She watched as he eased nearer, as his lips brushed lightly across hers. Settled on her cheek; nuzzling his way slowly back to her mouth. When she started kissing him back, Jack Sparrow lost himself in the pleasure of it. Her mouth was soft, and sweet with the flavor of rum. She leaned into him, the force of her passion pushing him back to his side of the boat. "Ana," he murmured, reaching for her.  
  
A resounding blow to the side of his face extinguished the romance. AnaMaria knelt above him, her eyes flaming. "Touch me again," she threatened quietly, pointing a stiff finger in his face, "and I will make you a eunuch." Thrusting the bottle his way, not caring if he caught it or not, she stalked to the far end of the boat.  
  
"You're the one who said it was a long trip back to Tortuga," Jack called after her, pouting. "I only meant to make it a little more pleasant for us both."  
  
"Pleasant would be dumping you overboard," she retorted hotly.  
  
"'Pleasant would be dumping you overboard,'" Jack mimicked in a whispered sing-song. He sighed unhappily and contemplated the bottle of rum. "Looks like its you and me, luv. Till we get to Tortuga anyway. And then ..." He paused, eyeing the piragua. A slow smile spread his lips.  
  
********************  
  
"The ceremony lasted well into the night," Jack Sparrow told the soldiers. "There was a huge feast, and plenty of rum courtesy of the rum runners."  
  
"I can't believe they'd just give up their whole cache as a peace offering," Murtogg commented admiringly. "Those natives must've been some pretty fierce warriors, Mr. Smith."  
  
"Oh, aye," Jack confirmed. "Even in their celebration, the men danced with their spears jabbin' about, and they hooted and screamed war cries instead of songs."  
  
"Frightening," Murtogg agreed. Mullroy rolled his eyes.  
  
"It was at the stroke of midnight when their leader offered me the sacrifice of a virgin."  
  
"A virgin?" Mullroy said. "They killed a girl for *you?*"  
  
"Now I didn't say that, did I?" Sparrow grinned cheekily and winked an eye.  
  
Mullroy huffed. "I'm surprised there were any virgins left, the way you talk."  
  
"There was only one left, and she was the most beautiful woman of all. The leader's daughter."  
  
"And she was naked?" Murtogg asked, wide-eyed.  
  
Mullroy barked, "Of course she was naked! Ain't *all* Mr. Smith's women naked?"  
  
Sparrow ignored the boorish comment. "Of course I was gracious in my acceptance of the lass. So gracious, in fact, that Syull offered me his whole harem of wives."  
  
"And you took them?" Murtogg asked. "*All* of them?"  
  
"I'm only one man," Sparrow admitted sorrowfully, "so I had to give some of them back."  
  
"Mighty generous of you," Mullroy grumbled sourly.  
  
"But he insisted I be given some other great honor as well. So in a brilliant ceremony full of dancin' and carousin' and cavorting, they gave me a tribal name; the name of their favorite god, as a matter of fact; said nuthin less would do. And then they made me their chief ..."  
  
There was a loud splash as something large hit the water, and Sparrow turned to see what it was. High atop the cliff, leaning over the ramparts of Fort Charles, a blue-clad naval officer was screaming a woman's name. Jack rushed to the side of the ship, accompanied by Murtogg and Mullroy who stood one on either side of him.  
  
"*Elizabeth!!!*" came another desperate scream.  
  
Eyes fixed on the center of that rippling wake, Jack leaned toward Mullroy, pointing vaguely outward. "Will you be savin' her then?"  
  
"I can't swim," came the chagrined response.  
  
Jack looked to Murtogg, who only shook his head. Sparrow said disgustedly, "Pearl of the king's navy you are." He began jerking off his weapons, coat and hat, thrusting them into the care of the befuddled soldiers. "Hold these. Do *not* lose them!" He leapt atop the ship's railing and dived overboard.  
  
The *Interceptor's* liberation would just have to wait until later ...  
  
Fin 


End file.
